


passion

by ingenious_spark



Series: nous faisons semblant [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Acceptance, Canon Era, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Kissing, M/M, Misunderstandings, Transgender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-10 01:16:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingenious_spark/pseuds/ingenious_spark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A discussion takes place, one that has been needing to happen for a long time. Enjolras considers Grantaire one of his dearest friends, and never imagined that Grantaire thought himself no more than a nuisance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	passion

**Author's Note:**

> And the discussion you all wanted. Takes place pretty much right after beauté leaves off. Just a note, I'm not sure they would actually have read Chaucer, but I decided to make the reference anyway. And, in my defense, I've never actually read any Euripides. :/ Hope y'all enjoy it anyways~

Enjolras wakes first in the bright light of the morning. His vision is briefly filled with just a cloud of soft black curls, but he shifts his gaze and realizes he’s got his face buried in the back of Grantaire’s neck. They’re curled together on Grantaire’s narrow bed, his chest pressed intimately to Grantaire’s back, possessively wrapped around the smaller man. He presses a soft kiss to the curls beneath his mouth and stays where he is, dozing peacefully. It’s been a long while since he indulged in a morning just lying abed.

He raises one hand idly to comb gently through Grantaire’s thick curls lazily, the haze of sleep still thickly curtaining his mind, and the dark-haired man stirs against him.

Grantaire makes a sleepy, snuffly, sighing sound, and it is the most adorable noise Enjolras has ever heard. He drops his hand and pulls the man closer to him, in a snug embrace. Grantaire emits a soft whine of protest, most likely to the late-morning sunlight shafting in through the window.

Enjolras comes to the sleepy, somewhat startling conclusion that he could lie like this, wrapped around his favorite drunken cynic for hours and be perfectly content. He drowses. Grantaire settles back against him and sighs quietly.

“I had the most wonderful dream...” the words are murmured out softly, accompanies by a sighing yawn. Enjolras makes a soft humming noise nuzzling the soft spot behind Grantaire’s ear, accidentally pricking him with the short, near-invisible stubble that has formed in the night. Grantaire hiccups and involuntary giggle, and then goes stiff in his arms. He grumbles, not exactly awake, and buries his face in the crook of Grantaire’s neck. A tentative hand makes his way into his wayward golden curls, and he hums contentedly at the soft stroking motions.

“...Enjolras?” Grantaire’s voice is shakey, a hairsbreadth from panic, and it shakes the last vestiges of sleep from Enjolras entirely.

“What? Is everything well?” He asks, his voice rough and quiet from sleep. Grantaire squirms away from him, and he relinquishes his grip without protest. The dark-haired man slides off the bed and dives for his shirt, abandoned on the floor. Enjolras sits up in the bed, and swings his feet to the floor. He watches Grantaire’s frantic motions, fighting his way into the shirt with a sad puzzlement. “Do you need to be somewhere today?” He asks, stifling a yawn behind his hand. Shirt secured, Grantaire sits down on the stool before his easel and regards Enjolras with wide, wild blue eyes. Enjolras returns the stare mildly.

“Why are you so _calm_?” Grantaire demands. Enjolras frowns.

“Why would I not be calm?” He parries the question, knowing what has likely gotten under Grantaire’s skin so badly, but wanting Grantaire to tell him first. Jumping to conclusions seems to be what has put them in this situation, and Enjolras would like to resolve it as quickly as he can.

“I - you - but...” he splutters, but Enjolras is patient. He waits. Grantaire collects his thoughts and tries again, running his hands through the sleep-rumpled mass of his black curls. “ You’re just being very calm for having found out that one of your acquaintances has been lying to you.” He finally manages, making a small, abortive, helpless motion with his hands. Enjolras frowns again - _acquaintance_? Grantaire is no mere acquaintance, why does he seem to believe he is?

“Grantaire, I am calm because one of my dearest friends seems to need me to be calm. From what I managed to gather from little Gavroche, there have been no lies between us.” Enjolras explains quietly. Grantaire chokes on the air in his lungs.

“I don’t...” he manages, voice tight and thin and choked, “I don’t understand.” He confesses, bowing his head. He seems to shrink in upon himself, and Enjolras's heart hurts. He sighs softly and stands from the bed. He takes Grantaire’s shoulders in a firm grip, guiding him to a standing position before carefully enfolding him in a gentle embrace. Grantaire chokes on a sob, clinging so tightly that Enjolras swears he can hear his ribs creak. Grantaire’s shoulders hitch and shudder as the smaller man cries like a wounded thing. Enjolras tightens his grasp and puts his mouth next to Grantaire’s ear, and begins to speak.

“Grantaire, I don’t hate you. I genuinely enjoy our arguments most of the time, until it gets out of hand and we start yelling. I thought you knew that - Combeferre says you’re good for me that way, that you make me more like a proper human. It makes me sad that you’re so cynical about life, but I know you have your reasons and I wish you would trust me enough to share them with me. It makes me frustrated when you drink so heavily because you have the potential to be _so much more_ , and I don’t know why you can’t see it.

“You play the devil’s advocate, and it’s good for the group and for me. You poke holes in our plans so that we might better patch them up, you find flaws in our arguments so that we might better argue our points. You are essential to us, to all of us, and to me especially. You make me a better person, Grantaire, I need you to help me remind myself that I’m not infallible, that my opinions aren’t the only ones that count. I am ashamed that I ever let you think otherwise for a second, much less for the entire length of our friendship.” And that’s the whole crux of it - Enjolras is genuinely ashamed to realize that Grantaire has not been deriving the same amount of companionship and pleasure as Enjolras has himself from their relationship. Grantaire collapses against him, knees going out, and Enjolras gently guides them down to the floor, until he has safely gathered Grantaire into his lap.

It is strange to see Grantaire like this, he realizes belatedly, stripped of pretense, a creature of raw emotion and broken edges. Usually he dulls his cracks with drink and tarnishes his emotion with cynicism. Enjolras begins to wonder if he has ever truly known Grantaire at all, and it shakes him to his very core.

He holds on tighter, more to anchor himself than Grantaire, because the one constant in his world is falling and he has built his home on shifting sands.

\-----

Grantaire’s world is being torn to pieces and painfully, painstakingly rebuilt with every whispered word in his ear.

It hurts.

It sooths.

It feels like drowning on dry land.

It feels like the first breath of air after living for years with choking asphyxia.

It is confused despair and ecstatic euphoria.

He clings and he cries; sobs like the wretch that he is, staining his Apollo’s skin with his mortal grief. For reasons still yet unfathomable, Enjolras holds on too, even when Grantaire’s knees go out and he collapses into the younger man.

Enjolras _needs_ him. Enjolras _cannot_ need him. Grantaire is a lazy, wine-sodden lout who cannot get _anything_ right, who has been unable to get anything right since he realized that he was a man trapped in a woman’s form. He briefly realizes that he’s sobbing like he’s had his heart ripped from his chest and this is actually fairly close to what it feels like. Grantaire has kept Enjolras on a pedestal for so long that it hurts to the point of an almost tangible pain to have Enjolras voluntarily step down from it like this. Grantaire has been too long set in the inexorable fact that he will never have a chance for friendship with this man, that by sheer nature of his own caustic personality, Enjolras will forever hate him.

He doesn’t know what to do.

He cries until he runs out of tears, huffing soft, dry sobs into Enjolras skin. Eventually he quiets, trembling, exhausted, against Enjolras, feeling limp and wrung-out. Enjolras has not loosed his grip even for a moment, and Grantaire feels _safe_ , somehow.

It’s a novel feeling. Grantaire’s never really been secure in the world since he left his family behind him and struck out on his own - the only one who still knows his direction is his elder sister, who helps him with the rent when he doesn’t sell enough paintings to keep up with it. He lives under the shadow of the day that someone finds out his secret and reveals him, shames him. He lives in fear that he will be deserted and scorned by those he truly cherishes.

He clings as he feels Enjolras shift, but the other man does not release him, merely picks him up as if he weighs no more than a sack of flour and moves them both to the bed. He situates Grantaire securely between the wall and his own body, and Grantaire idly wonders when his Apollo had become psychic. It’s a safe position, Enjolras putting himself firmly between Grantaire and the world.

Now that he is lying down once more, the exhaustion of his emotional breakdown weighs upon him until he slips back into Hypnos’s grasp.

\-----

Enjolras watches Grantaire sleep. He looks worn to the bone, and all Enjolras wants right now is to take him back to his own rooms and watch him like a hawk for at least a week. And feed him. Grantaire looks in desperate need of some good, nutritious food. Enjolras is perhaps not the best at tending to his own health, but Combeferre has told him that he can be truly formidable when it comes to the health of his friends.

 _(Actually what Combeferre had actually said was more along the lines of “royal mother-hen”, spoken in a kind of irritated fondness that Enjolras really only ever heard directed at him. And only when Combeferre thought he was being ridiculous. Enjolras had been genuinely worried about the other man, though, because he hardly ever got sick and the influenza was_ not _something to scoff about.)_

Grantaire is remarkably adorable in repose. Despite the almost-haggard look of him, the manner in which one hand curls loosely before his face while the other loosely clasps Enjolras’s upper arm is sweet. His lashes form a thick, dark fan over a hollow cheekbone. Dark curls tumble over his brow, matted but still luxurious.

Enjolras knows Grantaire is not handsome in the conventional sense, nor beautiful as so many have claimed Enjolras to be, but Enjolras finds him sweet. His face has the potential for apple-cheeked roundness, and if he would but take care of his thick, wayward curls they would be lovely. His nose is crooked, to be sure, but it gives his face character. And his eyes - Enjolras feels secure in saying that the other man’s eyes are stunning. Icy, mercurial things when unclouded by drugs and drink, they are by far Enjolras’s favorite of the other’s features.

Once Enjolras is sure that Grantaire is very soundly asleep, he sits up a bit, leaning back against the wall and snagging a book that had been abandoned on the stool that seems to serve as a bedside table. It is a collection of Euripides’s plays, binding broken open at ‘Orestes’. It is clearly a well-loved copy, annotated in Grantaire’s messy scrawl in the margins and underlined often. Enjolras smiles fondly, and begins to read.

And indeterminable amount of time later, Grantaire stirs from where he lies, arms wrapped around Enjolras’s waist and face pressed to his hip. Enjolras is thoroughly engrossed in both the story and Grantaire’s commentary, has been wishing, in fact, that he’d thought to bring paper and a pen so that he might take notes. Enjolras only notices that the other has woken when he detaches himself from Enjolras, moving to flop onto his back, dislodging the hand that Enjolras has had idly sifting through dark curls. He blinks, setting the book down to regard Grantaire. He looks moderately better, Enjolras decides. Grantaire merely blinks up at him.

“Do I pass inspection, M’sieur?” He asks, obviously trying for playful and falling somewhere in anxious instead. Enjolras favors him with a small, tender smile, one that has seen most of its use with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. Grantaire’s cheeks blossom pink, and he averts his eyes. Enjolras takes a moment to silently inform the heavens that yes, he did know exactly what he has done to deserve this, and he’s working on fixing it, thank you very much. He covers Grantaire’s eyes with his hand, gaining a huff of half-offended breath and, in a moment of pure spontaneity, bends to press a feather-light kiss against that deliciously tempting half-open mouth, catching Grantaire’s breath against his mouth and breathing it in.

_(Enjolras has shared such chaste kisses before, with Courfeyrac most often, though Combeferre occasionally deigns to lean in for a sweet kiss. It is an expression of friendship, naught else. Though Enjolras will admit he has thought of kissing Grantaire before, if only to just make him stop talking, and not entirely in the spirit of friendship.)_

Grantaire is stiff and unresponsive below him, and Enjolras admits a fleeting feeling of regret, disappointment. He withdraws, but suddenly Grantaire is pressing upwards, chasing his mouth, hands finding holds in Enjolras’s thick golden curls.

Grantaire’s kiss is anything but chaste, and Enjolras makes a soft, startled noise before returning it with equal vigor. His teeth find purchase against Grantaire’s lower lip, before his tongue finds Grantaire’s own, and they dance.

Grantaire kisses him like he’s dying for it, as if Grantaire is drowning and Enjolras is the very air itself. The sheer amount of emotion Grantaire is outpouring into Enjolras is staggering, And Enjolras finally believes. Grantaire loves him, not just as a friend, comrade, brother, but as a helpmate, lover, confidante. Enjolras finally understands that he could, very easily, see Grantaire in that same light, love him as all those things in return.

Only when they are gasping for air do they part, and neither moves far from the other, Enjolras resting his forehead against Grantaire’s as they breathe the same air. Grantaire’s icy blue eyes are clear and bright when Enjolras looks into them, and passion has caught them afire, the blue heart of a flame. His mouth is swollen and red, and Enjolras feels briefly smug about how thoroughly _debauched_ Grantaire already looks. He darts in again, tastes the older man’s lower lip and relishing in the way Grantaire’s eyes flutter shut, a look of pure ecstasy gracing his features.

He leans up on his elbow, and Grantaire looks up at him, still managing to seem astonished.

“You know, R, I don’t think I even know your name.” He remarks contemplatively. Grantaire blinks, and Enjolras can almost see the point at which gears once again engage and grind together to produce coherent thought. His clever tongue darts out to swipe at his lips, and Enjolras is momentarily entranced by that little flash of pink.

“I, well,” Grantaire flounders momentarily, clearing his throat. “Well, my parents gave me the name Rosalie.” The admission is murmured with averted eyes. Enjolras frowns contemplatively.

“That won’t do. You’re not a Rosalie, Grantaire. Have you another name?” He asks. ‘Rosalie’ makes Enjolras think of long dark curls and a coquettish pink blush, long skirts and petticoats. It does not suit Grantaire at all. Grantaire’s face is suffused with red now, and he looks up at Enjolras helplessly.

“I - when I first left I took a fancy to call myself Raphael.” He admits, and he fidgets, clearly embarrassed, looking up at Enjolras through his thick eyelashes. Enjolras smiles, wide and bright.

“Like Raffaello Sanzio da Urbino, the great Italian painter” he declares, tongue tripping over the Italian slightly. He favors Grantaire with another sweet smile. “I like it, it suits you.” He says, and Grantaire’s face turns even redder.

“It’s pretentious. To call myself after such a great master,” he mutters, and Enjolras decides to shut the other man up the way he has always desired to. Only once Grantaire is thoroughly breathless is Enjolras satisfied.

“It suits you, Grantaire. My Dionysian Raphael.” Enjolras briefly wonders if Grantaire’s face is ever going to return to its regular color, or if he shall be stained red in the face forever. It fades a little as Enjolras watches, though.

“I - um, I don’t actually know your name either,” Grantaire offers, catching his lower lip between crooked teeth. Enjolras blinks, startled, and then makes a face, dropping his head to nuzzle Grantaire’s collarbones.

“My parents saddled me with the silliest, most pretentious name they could, I swear. You must never call me by it.” He says sulkily against Grantaire’s skin. Grantaire rewards him with a breathless chuckle.

“Now you must tell me!” He insists, sounding much more himself. Enjolras huffs out a petulant sigh, and raises his head once more.

“I am Valentin Enjolras, at your service my dear Raphael.” He says dryly _(he has decided to use Grantaire’s chosen name as often as he possibly can when they are alone together, and possibly when they are not)_. Grantaire chokes on a giggle. “I told you it was stupid,” he says wryly.

“They named you for the saint of love!” Grantaire wails, laughing in earnest now. Enjolras rolls his eyes heavenward and flops over onto his back drawing Grantaire atop him.

“Technically, they named me for a Christian martyr,” he says petulantly. “It’s only later that his feast-day became a celebration of love. Damn Chaucer.” Grantaire’s giggles peter off after a while, and they lie there together in the warmth of what is rapidly becoming early afternoon.

“Valentin,” Grantaire begins, and Enjolras gives an irritated little sigh. “Fine, _Enjolras_ , what made you kiss me?” Grantaire sounds uncertain again, and Enjolras sighs softly, moving to sit up. It would be time for an actually serious discussion. Grantaire sits up as well, hesitantly taking Enjolras’s hand and twining their fingers together. Enjolras gives Grantaire’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “It -” He hesitates, but Enjolras has the capacity for truly ridiculous patience if he sets his mind to it. “It wasn’t because you found out my body is a woman’s, is it?” He finally asks, face turned away. Enjolras feels angry, and grips Grantaire’s chin with his free hand, looking Grantaire straight in the eyes.

“I would never do that to you, _Raphael_.” He emphasizes the name, hoping to convey his point a little better. “This has been building, dear R. I think that it was inevitable, at some point my eyes would open and I would see you there, where you have always been, by my side. I only thank God that it was sooner, rather than later.” Grantaire’s eyes flutter shut, and he looks eased, more secure in his place in the world. Enjolras cannot resist it, and leans in to steal a kiss from those almost-smiling lips. He draws Grantaire back into his arms, and the dark-haired man goes willingly. “I would have you as my lover, whatever your shape. Even if you chose to never lie with me, your companionship is all I need.” He vows. This time it is Grantaire who engages the kiss, flavored salty from tears that drip slowly from his eyelashes. Enjolras draws away, kissing away the salty drops. “Why do you cry now, Raphael?” He asks softly, but Grantaire is smiling, a shy little expression full of adoration and happiness.

“I am grateful, I am happy. I have not felt this abundance of joy in a very long time, dearest Valentin.” He says, and they share a sweet smile.

“I would ever have you be happy, R.” Enjolras promises Grantaire. Grantaire nods, chastely kissing Enjolras again.

“I will try, for you.” He swears.

“That is all I ask.” Enjolras reassures.

Their smiles rival the sun.


End file.
